


Twisted Tales From The Breach!

by Jay Auris (nighthawkms)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Conventions, IKEA, Jaeger Pilots, M/M, Rimming, Shorts, Sleep Deprivation, Smoking, deviantART
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-06 02:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthawkms/pseuds/Jay%20Auris
Summary: A collection of short tales, drabbles, and oneshots set in the Pacific Rim universe. Currently all Newmann, some previously posted on my tumblr. Rating may change in future. (To request future prompts, please drop them in mytumblraskbox.)





	1. Tale #1: Hermann Discovers Newt's Old Deviantart (Rated: T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from ak_hannicat on twitter: "I want something w Hermann discovering Newt's Deviant Art days"

It's an accident, really. They've become too comfortable with one another, so that when Newton texts him, _I emailed a copy of the Marshall's report to myself last week, you can just grab it off my console_ , Hermann has no compunction about logging into Newton's computer (password: G31ZL3RRUL3Z), clicking open his personal email account (password: LongerPasswordsAreMoreSecureThanShorterOnesTwentyCharacterLimitMyAss), and opening the document to resend it to his own address. Newton would do it himself, but the data connection at his conference is gobshite, and obviously if he's got anything incriminating on his email account, he's not worried about Hermann getting into it. 

And Hermann isn't one to snoop, really. Despite the way he and his lab partner are at each others throats on a near weekly, nay, daily basis, he respects Newton's privacy. But having such a personal thing such as Newton's private email address at his disposal, well, it's too much to resist at least peeking, and he dares to skim the subject headers of the other emails. Nothing impressive: news subscriptions, coupons from his usual clothing stores, something about a hotel confirmation for a comic convention he's attending next month.

Then one catches his eye.

_Subject: GravitationGenius4206969 is that you?_

Hermann's never seen Newton use that username for any of his accounts, at least the ones he knows about (Newton once attempted to cajole him into getting a Facebook, but the only social media Hermann will allow is a profile on Goodreads and the occasional post on Metafilter, son of the mid-2000s web that he is). It's such an odd username, so childish with the weed and sexual innuendo references. Exactly what a teenaged Newton would've found hilarious.  And when he glances at the sender of the email, he snorts loudly.

_From: logins@deviantart.com_

_Oh good Lord_ , Hermann thinks, his finger hovering over the email. _Of course he would've had one._

He assumes that someone was trying to log into the account, probably years inactive, or this is part of some sort of phishing scam. He could open it, could read what's inside, could mark it as having not been read, and Newton would be none the wiser...

But there's likely no need, he realizes. He has the username, and the website it was used on. And he doubts the site has private account options.

So he closes the email, pulls out his phone, and opens the web browser. A few taps later, the profile for _GravitationGenius4206969_  pops up on his screen.

The first thing he sees is a fairly crude drawing of what is probably an attempt at Godzilla, or another one of the various Japanese sea monsters Newton was probably obsessed with before the appearance of the Kaiju made fantasy monsters so much less fascinating than reality. Even though it's horribly juvenile, it has enough similarity to the art style of the stylized tattoos that adorn Newton's arms that it must be his work. The lines are crude, the shading passable, the colors clearly done in pencil with uneven strokes. And yet there's a personality to it, a certain _je ne sais Newton_ , if he must.

He scrolls down and the next picture is of two characters amateurishly drawn in an 'anime' style, or perhaps they are anime characters, as the words the words' SHINJI/KAWORU' are written above the two males, one black-haired, one silver, embracing another in skin-tight body suits. Below the picture is a link that says 'READ' and, curious, Hermann taps on it. A wall of text pops up, and he does as the link commands.

 

_Chapter 1_

_Shinji was on the catwalks, staring at his EVA when Kaworu came up next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder._

_"I know you feel so lost after the last battle, Shinji-kun," Kaworu said. Shinji looked at him. "Is there any way I can help ease it?"_

_Shinji scowled and then nodded, cupping his face. "There is one way..."_

"Oh dear," Hermann mutters to himself, and if he is grinning, it is only because a devious, un-Gottliebian plan is forming in his mind. "This certainly must fall outside the terms of service." 

~

"Hermann!"

Hermann doesn't bother to look up from his console until Newton leans beside him, frowning.

"Yes?" Hermann asks, perfectly pleasant.

"Did you leave something on my desk?"

"Certainly not, you know I despise setting foot on your godforsaken side of the lab."

Newton squints at him. "So, no... papers you've misplaced?"

"My work is mostly digital or on that chalkboard, you know this," Hermann chides. "And any of my papers are neatly organized and out of the way. I am meticulous in my-"

"Alright, fine, fine," Newton grouses. "So... did you see anyone leave something on my desk, then?"

Hermann shrugs. "I have been in and out throughout the afternoon. It is always possible that someone dropped off some paperwork for you. Why?"

"No reason," Newton grumbles. "Just, never mind." He storms back over to his side of the lab, and only when he isn't looking does Hermann let the softest of smiles pass across his face.

Twenty minutes later, Newton is back next to his console, snapping open a folded piece of paper, upon which is a printout of his old Godzillla drawing and the words "Lacks Refinement, B-" printed below the drawing.

"What the hell is this?" he snaps, glaring.

Hermann blinks, and then shrugs. "Seems like a very crude bit of art. Am I supposed to recognize it?"

"This was under my dissection tray," Newton says, waving it in Hermann's face. "Did you put it there?"

"Newton, really, I have important work to do, plenty of calculations to run. Why would I waste my time printing out amateur scribbling from the web?"

"Amateur!" Newton starts, but then apparently decides that isn't the most pressing issue, because he slaps another paper down on Hermann's desk. "Just like you didn't leave _this_  on my desk?"

There's another printed-out drawing, this one of a slim-waisted woman with spiky red hair, dressed in a blue Japanese school uniform with an extremely short skirt, and bearing massive breasts that defy the laws of physics. "Sexist and cliche, D+" is printed below this one.

"No," Hermann repeats looking back at his computer and resuming his typing. "Did you misplace your, what did you call it... your 'hentai' collection again?"

Newton's glare is searching, like he knows, he just knows that Hermann is guilty, but there's no proof, and really, to accuse Hermann Gottlieb of all people of such childish pranks... it would defy everything heretofore that Newton knows about him.

Newton makes a frustrated noise and stomps away again.

There are no more outbursts from him, and apparently he settles down enough that when Hermann asks if he wants to get dinner, he agrees fairly amicably, following Hermann out of the lab and down the hall towards the cafeteria. Newton goes on about the latest experiment he's running while they grab trays and fill them with the barely edible portion of spaghetti they're allotted. They move towards their usual table off in the corner, where no one ever bothers to sit because it's near the noisy, steaming kitchens, which means they're never bothered by meat-head pilots or meddling administrators.

As they slide into their seats, Newton pauses, his hand gripping the underside of the table. Hermann hears paper rustling, and Newt tears something that's been taped underneath, pulling it up and staring at it as he plops down.

Hermann takes a bite of his spaghetti, chews, and waits for Newt to lower the paper, confusion writ across his face.

"What the shit, man?" Newt asks, thrusting the paper out for Hermann to see. "Why is this happening?"

This drawing is slightly better than the last two, and seems to be a self-portrait, if the spiky brown hair, square-rimmed glasses, and general punk rock aesthetic of the figure is anything to go by. The man is strumming on an electric guitar, in deep concentration, and only now does Hermann notice the swirling scriptive of _GravitationGenius4206969_  scribbled in the bottom corner, in Newton's distinctly recognizable handwriting. Another printed commentary, "Why don't you show this off? A-."

Hermann shrugs, swallowing. "Someone trying to tell you something, I suppose?"

"What?" Newton asks, pulling the paper back, biting his lip and scrubbing a hand through his beard. "That they've got blackmail material on me or something?" He looks... genuinely concerned. 

"Newton, I'm sure that's not-"

"No, dude, you don't get it!" Newton says, crumpling the paper and standing up sharply. "Just, fuck it. See you later." He walks off, leaving his tray behind.

Hermann knows he's made an error. He hadn't meant to distress his lab partner, merely tease him, so when he remembers the final print out, he quickly busses both of their trays and nearly runs out of the cafeteria, hurrying to the living quarters, knocking on Newton's door. It opens, and Newton stands there clutching a handful of papers.

"It was me," Hermann says, catching his breath.

"I know, you ass," Newton says, frowning. "You're the only one who knows my room code, unless the Marshall has decided he's bored and wants to mess with me for shits and giggles." He waves the bundle of papers. "You printed out my fanfiction? Seriously?"

"Let me explain," Hermann says. "May I come in?"

Newton looks like he's going to tell Hermann off for a moment, but then he deflates and sighs. "Yeah, sure."

When the door shuts behind him, Hermann continues. "I became aware of some of your... teenage web presence. I hadn't meant to frighten you though, honestly. It was just a bit of amusement. Why did you react so harshly?"

"Because, well... fuck, it's embarrassing, dude," Newton mumbles, folding his arms. "I don't need people knowing I drew shitty art and wrote awful erotica. I was a kid. Most people don't like being reminded of their abysmal early work."

"That makes sense," Hermann admits. "Although I would hesitate to call any of that 'abysmal.' Immature, perhaps, but you were young. You clearly had some talent."

"Uh, thanks, I guess," Newton says, and Herman is shocked to see him blushing. How interesting.

"Although," Hermann continues, "your fictional work is, shall we say, lacking in realistic expectations of the realities of sexual contact between two men."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I had any experience at that point," Newt says, shrugging.

Hermann raises an eyebrow. "And that has... changed?"

"Huh? I mean, yeah. I thought you knew?"

"No, I- I don't presume anything until someone informs me directly of their preferences."

"Well, I don't bother being direct about them unless I'm interested in someone." Newton squints. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Hermann says nothing. Now he's the one whose turn it is to be embarrassed, whose turn it is to blush.

"Oh," Newt says. "I didn't think you- well, in that case..." He takes a step towards Hermann, lips quirking up in a smile. "I'm into basically anyone who'll have me. Men, women, gender non-conforming, anywhere on the spectrum. That direct enough for you, Hermann?"

Hermann nods. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order? Since you claim to be more knowledgeable now."

Newton laughs, and reaches out, gripping his arms to pull him closer. "As long as you promise to shred those printouts, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."


	2. Tale #2: Newt in Short-Shorts (Rating: M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt based on request by feriowind to write booty-shorts fic. Original prompt [here](http://nighthawkms.tumblr.com/post/173946663020/feriowind-heres-a-little-ditty-hope-you-enjoy)

Hermann hears Newt’s stomping steps far before he can see the man. He’s apparently chosen the heavy boots today, Hermann can tell by their  _clunk clunk clunk_  against the metal grating, and obviously he’s annoyed with something, but Hermann waits until the stomping stops before bothering to look over, because Newt annoyed about something is par for the course.

“Good morning, what’s-“

Hermann stops. Hermann blinks. Hermann  _stares_.

Newt scowls. “Hermann, never make a bet against Mako Mori, I swear to  _Christ_ that woman has the luck of the devil. The devil, Herms!”

Hermann continues staring, and the chalk in his fingers slips from between them, falling and cracking against the floor.

“What,” Hermann says. “What in bloody Einstein’s name are you  _wearing_  in my laboratory, Newton Geiszler?!”

Newt folds his arms. “First of all, it’s  _our_  lab, thanks so much. Secondly, like I said, blame Mako. She is  _vicious_.”

Hermann can’t possibly comprehend the circumstances that would lead to Newton walking into the lab wearing …what he’s wearing. Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe Hermann is lucid dreaming, or unconscious, or perhaps he’s having a stroke.

“Are… are those  _booty shorts_?” Hermann asks, horrified.

Newt looks down. “Kind of amazed you know what booty shorts are, but technically, I think these are just very, very short jean shorts. I just, uh, seem to fill them out very differently than their normal owner.”

The shorts are so, unbelievably tight, and they show off  _everything_ , including Newt’s legs, which are somehow smooth and hairless, which Hermann knows is  _not_  normal, since he’s seen occasional flashes of Newt’s ankles; the man is usually about as racy as a Victorian peep show.

But returning to the shorts…

Hermann is getting an eyeful, between the way they hug Newt’s hips  _atrociously_ well, and are low cut enough that Hermann catches a glimpse of stomach, and more than a glimpse of a quite….  _generous_ bulge in the front.

Then Newt walks down the, and turns towards his side of the lab, and Hermann sees his backside.

And, well… Hermann has been forced to watch enough of Newt’s perverted anime shows to recognize the moment when he, as a cartoon character, would collapse into a puddle and start furiously bleeding from the nose.

Because Newt’s backside in those shorts…  _bloody Christ_.

Hermann tears his gaze upwards, hoping the shudder that goes through him isn’t noticeable. Other than the shorts, Newt is dressed down in a black t-shirt and black combat boots. Perfectly normal attire, albeit a bit more casual than his normal work attire, if not for those…

Bloody.  _Ridiculous_. Shorts.

“How, pray tell, did this happen?” Hermann asks, turning away, trying to focus on his chalkboard. Numbers, equations, math… Yes. Good, wholesome things to keep his mind clean, pure, and not thinking about how he’s had a sudden sexual awakening at the sight of Newt in skin-tight clothing.

“I’d rather not go into details,” Hermann hears Newt say. “Suffice to say, loser had to wear an article of clothing of the winner’s choice for a full work day. And, see, I’m a gentleman who won’t sexualize a woman fourteen years my junior, so I was thinking, yanno, a giant cowboy hat, or an inflatable pool tube, or a t-shirt that says ‘Ask Me About My Genius Friend Newt.’ Something stupid and silly. But apparently Mako had no such hesitation.”

“Hermann sputters. “Are, are those  _hers?_ ”

“Man, I don’t know, and I didn’t feel like asking, because then there are questions I have about how she knows what size I wear, and hey, hey look for a second, would you?” Newt asks.

“I’d rather  _not_ ,” Hermann says.

“Please, dude? I’ve got a question.”

Hermann hesitates, but if he doesn’t look, Newt will want to know  _why_  he won’t, and that is not a conversation he is willing to get into. So, he steels himself and glances back.

Newt is facing away from him, twisting side to side, and Hermann watches in rapt fascination as Newt bends forward, hands on his knees, sticking his rear end out, and looks back over his shoulder at Hermann.

“Like, these fit  _perfectly_. How the fuck did she do that? More importantly, they’re  _comfortable_? I can move around, and I’m just saying, I’ve had, er,  _experience_ with women’s clothing, and their shit doesn’t flex like ours. I mean, these things must have lycra woven in, watch this!”

Newt bends entirely over, and Hermann almost falls entirely over.

“You’ve made your point!” Hermann yelps, turning away. He’s suddenly feeling very warm, and he shrugs his sweater off, tossing it to a nearby chair. If Newt keeps this up, his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt might be coming off next. “So… you plan on working the entire day like this?”

“Well, luckily, I’m probably not dealing with any hazardous materials today, so it shouldn’t be an issue to have my legs out,” Newt replies.

Hermann nods, picking up his chalk. “Speaking of, you, ahem… you shaved your legs?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, that was part of the bet. Not like the hair won’t grow back.”

“Clearly,” Hermann says, rubbing a hand over his face and very pointedly keeping his eyes on his chalkboard.

For most of the morning, Hermann tries very hard to concentrate on his work, and not on the pair of legs striding around at the periphery of his vision, which normally have little effect on him, but today are a bad temptation to sneak a peek at.

The problem is, Newt keeps  _engaging_  him.

For instance, Newt starts talking about a paper published last month on an anatomical structure of the kaiju that is still being theoretically debated, and then he decides to come over to Hermann’s side of the lab and shove a tablet into his face and rant for ten minutes about the poor logical fallacies contained within said paper. He’s stood in front of Hermann the whole time, right up in his space, and Hermann keeps his eyes pointedly  _above_  waist level, but he wants to look down, and the knowledge of what he’ll see if he does is almost as bad as doing it.

Newt is mid-explanation of the fifth thing wrong with the paper when Hermann snaps at him unnecessarily to get him to shut up, and then flees back to his chalkboard.

Then, Newt claims to see an error in one of his equations high up the chalkboard, and decides he will  just snatch a piece of chalk from between Hermann’s fingers and shimmy up the ladder to prove his point. He’s far too short to match Herman’s normal reach on the board, and so he’s forced to lean on the last rung and push upwards, his legs flexing and the muscles of his ass clenching, shirt riding up, as he reaches up with the chalk and scribbles, then glances below at Hermann with a smug smile, eyelashes fluttering, perhaps an attempt at sassiness, but ultimately coming across as  _coaxing_.

Hermann says nothing, because if he opens his mouth, a part of his anatomy will begin speaking that is not his  _brain_ , because his brain is rational, and this other part is having a very  _irrational_  reaction to seeing Newt stretched out on his work ladder like a bloody centerfold.

Instead, Hermann walks out to use the restroom and splash some cold water over his face, trying to calm down. He grips the edges of the sink, and stares at himself in the mirror.

_You are losing it, Hermann. They’re just legs. What’s so bloody wonderful about legs? Especially Newt’s!_

Well, Newt’s legs are quite…  _shapely_. Yes, that’s the word one uses for legs that look soft, calves a bit rounded, a bit stout, but lovely to run one’s hands down, and that one would very much like to have wrapped around one’s-

_Good lord!_  Hermann’s brain skitters to a halt, and for the third time today, he is forced to breathe deeply and will away an erection.  _What is wrong with me?_

It’s not like questions, rants and smug argumentation aren’t all perfectly normal, Newtonian things. However, when combined with those far-too-short-are-those-even-legal shorts, and Newt practically waving his legs in Hermann’s face…

_That is your lab partner_ , Hermann scolds himself.  _Not, not some bloody Playboy bunny for you to drool over!_

He steels himself and returns to the lab. Thankfully, Newt is engaged in something on the autopsy side, far enough away for Hermann to focus on his work.

Around noon, he hears something shatter.

“ _Bio-hazard shower!_ ” Newt yelps, and Hermann whips around, horrified to see something blue splattered across Newt’s front half. Oh  _god,_  kaiju blood, it’s everywhere, it’ll eat right through his skin-!

Hermann lunges for the shower handle, yanking it down as Newt dives inside the stall. The water sprays out in a sharp blast, soaking Newt instantly, the treated water able to neutralize the acidic levels in the blood. But it still made direct contact with Newt’s unprotected skin for a few seconds, and Hermann grabs a towel from the rack and stumbles in after him, hurriedly wiping the biohazardous material off Newt’s bare legs, not caring about getting wet, because maybe if he gets it off fast enough, the acid burns won’t be quite so  _grievous_ , and… and Newt isn’t screaming in pain. How is he not screaming?

“Hermann? What the fuck are you doing?” Newt asks.

The panic fades, and Hermann finds himself bending over in front of Newt, staring at perfectly clean, uninjured skin.

“You’re, you’re alright?” Hermann says, reaching out without thinking, fingers brushing against the top of Newt’s thigh.  _By jove, it’s soft, I knew it would be, oh my…_

Then he glances up, and almost has a stroke.

Newt’s black t-shirt, normally bilious, is soaked through, so it’s flat against his chest, the faint outline of his pectoral muscles and two accompanying nipples visible through the fabric. His hair is hanging in heavy curls, glistening with water, dripping rivulets that catch in the dip of his collarbone and roll their way down Newt’s neck.

Hermann licks his lips, wants to lick those rivulets right off Newt’s skin…

Newt takes off his glasses, rubbing them uselessly, as all of him is soaking wet. “What did you think I’d spilled?”

“…Kaiju blood,” Hermann replies, standing up straight. His own hair and upper half is water-logged, and he yanks his tie off, lest it shrink and choke him. Then he snatches Newt’s glasses and wipes them dry.

“What? No, it was just spinal fluid,” Newt says as Hermann slides Newt’s glasses back onto his nose.

“Then… why the shower?” Hermann asks, and starts unbuttoning his shirt, because it’s getting quite uncomfortable to only be drenched halfway, and his skin is flush, warm, getting warmer the longer he stares at Newt.

“We still don’t know all the effects of human contact,” Newt says, his own eyes apparently very interested as Hermann’s hand drifts lower and lower at each popped button. “I… just wanted to be sure…”

“Newton… was there really a bet?” Hermann asks, undoing the last button, revealing the white tank top he wears underneath. He lets the button-down slide off his shoulders, and sees Newt’s eyes snap to the bare skin, then back to Hermann’s face.

Newt licks the water off his lips. Hermann lets out a little sigh.

“Yeah… but not exactly how I explained it,” Newt says, running a hand through his hair, slicking it back. Hermann takes a step towards him, and Newt steps farther back into the shower. “Mako thought you’d flip out and try to have me written up for blatant disregard of the dress code. I… thought you’d just assume I was being my usual ridiculous self and ignore it.”

“I have done  _neither_  of those things, Newton,” Hermann says, swallowing, taking another step. Newt presses back against the wall of the shower, his skin beginning to visibly goosebump as the water cools.

Hermann continues. “I have attempted, very admirably, I would say, to just  _ignore it_ , and I find myself… unable to.”

“Herms, they’re just sh-shorts,” Newt says, starting to shiver as the water cools against his skin. “…I’ll  _take them off_  if they’re bothering you that much.”

“Oh, that would only magnify the issue, Newton,” Hermann replies, licking his own lips. “But if they are becoming  _uncomfortable_ , I shall not attempt to dissuade you.”

It’s quite unfair, that Newt looks entirely too comfortable reaching down. Hermann hears rustling, a zipper, and then fabric hitting the floor.

He braces himself. Then he looks.

Newt smirks. “They were honestly way too tight, how am I supposed to wear underwear underneath something so-“

Hermann slams into him, kissing him roughly, rational thought overwhelmed by lust. Newt doesn’t seem to mind, kissing him right back, grinding up against him, soaking the remainder of Hermann’s clothing, a last little indignity for Hermann to suffer today.

That’s alright though, because Newt is soon on his knees, and then his back, making quite indignant sounds, and well… for Hermann, that’s revenge enough.

 

 


	3. Tale #3: Going to Bed (Rating: T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous tumblr prompt: How about "Go to bed." "YOU go to bed." Original prompt [here](http://nighthawkms.tumblr.com/post/173914692205/how-about-go-to-bed-you-go-to-bed)

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann calls, voice echoing in the silence of the lab, the lights overhead dimmed. “ _Go to bed_.”

Newton stirs from his spot on the couch, leaning upright, head tipped back. He was just closing his eyes, he wasn’t snoring, nope, he’s still definitely awake.

“Why don’t  _you,_ ”Newt slurs, shaking his head, rubbing his eyes, stumbling up to his feet. He wobbles, grabbing the arm of the couch to steady himself.

“Code is still processing through the system,” Hermann replies, seated on a stool at his workstation, head bundled on his arms across the surface. His eyes are fluttering open, shut, open. “Need to make sure everything runs correctly for tomorrow.”

Newt stumbles over and grabs the edge of Hermann’s desk, ignoring the half-awake scowl the other man gives him, half-hearted attempt to seem annoyed with Newt’s intrusion into his space.

“Go ‘way,” Hermann grumbles.

Newt squints at the screen on Hermann’s workstation, bleary-eyed, even with his glasses, barely able to read it.

“Dude, this is gonna take another  _two hours_ ,” Newt groans, leaning into Hermann’s side. “Fuck… dude, just check it in the morning.”

“No,” Hermann mutters, pushing against him with all the energy of a baby sloth. “Needs to be perfect. Need to make sure, and won’t have time before the presentation tomorrow.”

“Herm, I can run on three days of no sleep, you  _can’t_ ,” Newt says, nudging him. God, Hermann’s shoulder is so  _soft_ , and Newt just wants to lie his head on it. “And don’t try to lie about how long you’ve been in here in the last seventy-two hours, ‘cause I know how you get about quarterly funding. Plus, you’re not using full sentences, and you  _never_  do that unless your brain is shutting down.”

“Why’re you still here.” Hermann closes his eyes, shifting his face to press wholly against his pillowed arms. His next words are muffled as a result.

“What?” Newt asks, gripping Hermann’s shoulder, shaking it wearily.

Hermann peeks an eye out, and half his mouth. “You don’t need to be here…  finished your projects… no trouble secure funding next quarter.”

Newt shrugs and gives in to temptation, resting his forehead on Hermann’s shoulder, and Hermann doesn’t make any moves to nudge him off.

“I dunno, dude,” Newt says, yawning. “Solidarity, maybe.”

He twists his head, opens an eye, until he can see Hermann’s blurry outline, so close, too close, really, and normally Hermann would be shoving him away, but their personal space bubbles have shrunk to nearly nothing. This type of thing rarely occurs, where Hermann will let him indulge in his need for affectionate physical contact. Really, only in two situations: when they’re both extremely drunk, or extremely tired.

“Need it to be perfect,” Hermann says, and Newt blinks his vision clear enough to see the real worry sunk into Hermann’s exhausted face.

“Dude, you’ll be fine… always are,” Newt mutters.

“No,” Hermann insists, “I- I don’t want to leave.”

Newt blinks, frowns, yawns. “Who would make you?”

Hermann lets out a huff. “Funding won’t last forever, Newton. We’re the last of K-Science. Why bother keeping us if we can’t show results?”

“Okay,” Newt says, “but you’d land on your feet. You’d be okay.”

Hermann closes his eyes again, licking his lips, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

“Don’t want to work anywhere else,” Hermann says, eyes still shut. “Or with anyone else.”

Newt swallows, and he’s so tired, that that little revelation only sends a faint tingle through his chest instead of the stomach-curdling, life-altering panic it deserves.

He pushes up off the desk, rests a hand on Hermann’s back.

“You’d get over it,” Newt says, sliding back, only for Hermann to grab his arm and drag him down into a half-hug, burying his face in Newt’s neck, one arm wrapped around his neck, the other gripping into his shirt.  _Fuck_ , Newt thinks,  _how exhausted must he be?_

“No,” Hermann mumbles, and Newt feels his lips ghost against Newt’s skin, feels him swallow heavily, throat thick with words and sleep. “I mean it.”

“You’re delirious, dude,” Newt says, trying to pull back.

But Hermann won’t let go, and is dragging Newt down with his whole body weight, and he’s  _warm_  and  _soft_  and Newt has been touch-starved for months, and it’s so damn  _unfair_ , because he’s tingling all over and he’s not nearly as exhausted as Hermann, so certain body parts are  _waking up_  and that’s not okay, they’ve got expectations that Hermann obviously can’t fulfill in his current state, and isn’t responsible for fulfilling no matter the state, whatever Newt’s desperate fantasies say. Even if he is clinging to Newt like he’s afraid Newt will disappear.

“Delirium and alcohol are the only things that make me honest when it comes to feelings,” Hermann replies, letting out a shaky sigh. “Can never tell you things I want to otherwise. Like how I feel about you.”

“Herm, stop,” Newt says, because if nothing else, he knows Hermann won’t be able to look at him, speak to him for days if he keeps going, will be mortified, and Newt normally loves when Hermann is mortified about something… but not something like this. “You need sleep. Go to bed.  _Please_.”

Hermann lifts his head, meets Newt’s gaze, his eyes blood-shot, red rimmed, weary, and  _lost_.

“I’ll go if you come with me.”

Newt freezes, speechless, licking his lips, so parched, can’t reply, doesn’t know  _how_  to, because how do you respond to something like that?

“Come with me,” Hermann repeats, lowering his head onto Newt’s shoulder again, breathing softly, air ghosting over Newt’s collarbone, making his skin prickle and goosebump.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK_.

Newt reaches out and grabs Hermann’s cane from where it rests against the workstation, pressing it into his grip.

“Come on,” he says, wrapping an arm around Hermann’s waist, tugging him to stand. “You need to catch some Zs.”

Hermann leans into him, and Newt almost does take him out of the lab, almost does bring them back to Hermann’s bunk, almost does lie him down on the bed, almost does climb over him, kiss him, give in to what they both seemingly want.

Almost.

But if Hermann really means all this… then it’s not going to be a delirious revelation. It won’t be a drunken confession. Newt wants to see him admit his feelings with the clear certainty of every other decision Hermann makes.

Newt won’t be an accidental declaration. He wants to be a choice.

So instead, he leads Hermann to the couch, and draws them both down onto it. The blanket hanging over the back gets wrapped around them, and Hermann is fast asleep against his chest a few moments later.

Newt tips his head back again and closes his eyes. In the morning, if Hermann needs him to, he’ll blow it off, pretend it was no big deal. Pretend everything is copacetic.

Just like every other time.

But he hopes this time, Hermann will choose him.


	4. Tale #4: A Chance Con Meeting (Rating: T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Them running into each other at a con when they didn't expect to" Original prompt [here](http://nighthawkms.tumblr.com/post/173409956915/newthermann-prompts-still-them-running-into-each)

“Hermann? What the  _fuck_ , dude?”

“You said you were visiting your uncle this weekend, Dr. Geiszler!”

“And you said you had a conference in Berlin,  _Dr. Gottlieb._ ”

Hermann scowls, keeping whatever he’s holding hidden behind his back. There’s a lot of people in the convention hall staring at them, and Newt doesn’t really want to have it out with his colleague around strangers, so he grabs Hermann’s arm and drags (well, as gently as he’s able to) the other man behind one of the large pillars in the lobby. He takes the chance to swipe the object out from behind Hermann’s back, despite the other man’s protests, and finds it to be a comic, or rather, a graphic novel, collecting several comic issues.

“ _The Modala Imperative_? What the shit, man? Star Trek? Are you  _kidding_  me?”

“Give that back.” Hermann reaches for it, but Newt steps away.

“No. Not until you tell me what the hell you’re doing here. Are you stalking me?”

“What? Of course not!”

“I don’t believe you. There’s no way in hell you’d come to a science fiction convention of your own  _oh my fucking god you came of your own volition_.” Newt stares at him, as his conception of Hermann tilts about forty-five degrees to the left, and straight off its axis.

Hermann sighs, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Despite what you assume, I have interests outside of work.”

“Dude, I am a giant fucking nerd and you don’t share this shit with me? What is  _wrong_  with you? I am legitimately hurt by this!”

“Kirk or Picard?”

“What.”

“Kirk, or Picard. Which one.”

“Uh, Kirk, obviously. Dude kicks ass and scores with the ladies so, so much.”

“Wrong. the correct answer is clearly Picard, as the more capable commanding officer. Star Trek or Wars?”

“What? I- Wars. The Millennium Falcon kicks the shit out of the Enterprise, my love for Kirk aside.”

“Wrong, again. Trek was clearly a superiorly designed and implemented vision of a space-faring society.”

“Oh come on, C-3PO versus Data? It’s not even a contest!”

“And this, Dr. Geiszler, is why I did not tell you. For the past year of working with one another, we have argued constantly, about absolutely everything.” Hermann sighs. “I was hoping… that we might manage to hold non-argumentative, productive conversations outside of our work environment. Eventually. Perhaps within the next decade or so.”

Newt stares at him for a long moment, and then grins. “You wanna be friends. Dude. The only people I dignify with cogent arguments outside of an academic setting are family and friends. So congrats, you already made one of those categories.”

Hermann blinks. “Ah. Oh. Really?”

Newt shrugs. “We got off on a bad foot, and some days I want to punch that snobbish, superior expression right off your face. But… fuck, you don’t get to ever tell anyone I said this… my work nowadays is better because you challenge it. And you’re not always the worst person to be around. I enjoy it, occasionally?”

“What a thrilling and rave review of our relationship,” Hermann replies, not exactly looking thrilled. “You have truly made me feel close to you as a person.”

Newt grins and holds the comic out. Hermann takes it back. “See, it’s that biting, take-no-prisoners sarcasm that makes me like you,” Newt says, patting him on the shoulder. That seems to jolt Hermann a bit, and he goes a bit wide-eyed. Huh. It’s kinda cute.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Newt says. “See you on Monday.” He turns to go.

“Ah, Newton…”

Now,  _that_  is the first time Newt can remember Hermann using his first name. He looks back. “Yeah?”

“I would not be opposed to having a drink at the hotel bar later and…  _commiserating_.”

Newt laughs and nods. “It’s a date.”


	5. Tale #5 Smoke Break (Rating: T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous tumblr prompt: "them outside the shatterdome on a smoke break" Original prompt [here](http://nighthawkms.tumblr.com/post/173409956915/newthermann-prompts-still-them-running-into-each)

“May I have one of those?”

Wordlessly, Newt hands a cigarette off to Hermann, who has appeared in the nearby doorway leading out to the side alley next to the Shatterdome. He looks a bit spooked, still, but so does everyone who was in the room during the test, Newt included.

“Didn’t think you smoked,” Newt says, flicking his lighter, fingers trembling as he tries to get the flame to light. Eventually, Hermann plucks it from his grasp and, almost unfairly suavely, lights both of them with ease.

“Only at moments like these,” Hermann says, taking a long drag before blowing it out. “Nearness to death is the only thing that pushes me to this vice. Ironic, considering what these do to you, I suppose. You?”

“Mmm… Same.” Newt coughs a bit, it’s been years since he’s truly done this regularly, but something about watching two Jaeger pilots die in writhing agony as they’re electrocuted and cooked from the inside out by faulty Jaeger equipment… yeah, he could use a fucking smoke after that.

They stand quietly for a few moments, listening to and feeling the light rain patter on the ground and their clothes, cutting blades through the twirling smoke surrounding them. Newt feels the nicotine doing its work, absorbing into his bloodstream, stimulating his adrenal glands, paradoxically perking his nervous system while also calming his anxiety simultaneously.  _This was nice,_  he thinks, remembering the few years he was well and truly a regular at this, _but then I realized I liked being able to walk more than fifty feet without hacking my lungs up, and Xanax could produce pretty much the same effects._

“That was so fucked up,” Newt says.

“It was horrifying,” Hermann replies, nodding. “Those poor men.”

“Cassidy is gonna get court-marshaled for his shitty fucking mods. Bad science gets people killed.”

“Agreed.”

Newt watches Hermann finish off the first cigarette, tossing the butt to the ground and stomping it out. He shakes his head when Newt offers him the pack.

“One is enough, thank you. You should come back inside, the rain is getting worse.”

“In a sec,” Newt says, sighing and leaning against the wall. “Just need to decompress a little more.” He taps the end of the cigarette, watching ash vanish from the end.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Hermann looks hesitant, then rests a hand on Newt’s shoulder. “You were quite distraught in there.”

Newt looks away, taking another drag. “I can’t stand this sometimes, Herm,” he says at the tail end of blowing out the smoke. “Fucking military industrial complex… those dudes’ families are never gonna know what really happened. It’ll all get swept under the rug.”

“They signed up for this program of their own volition. There are always risks.”

“Yeah, well, those risks were supposed to be giant sea monsters devouring them, not some dipshit in engineering who can’t correctly wire parts together.”

Hermann smiles faintly, and squeezes his shoulder. “Then we shall ensure that is a mistake that will never repeat itself.”

Newt tosses the last of his cigarette to the ground. “Yeah. You promise?”

Hermann nods. “No more deaths because of K-Science. Let both of us work to achieve that.”

Newt smiles. “Okay. Holding you to that.”

Years later, after the Triple Event, Newt recalls that agreement as he straps the Pons to his head in preparation for his first drift.

_I’m sorry, Hermann_ , he thinks as he presses the button.  _I hope I don’t break our promise._


	6. Tale #6: Ikea Shopping (Rating: T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous tumblr prompt: "them shopping at ikea" Original prompt [here](http://nighthawkms.tumblr.com/post/173409956915/newthermann-prompts-still-them-running-into-each)

“So,” Newt says, sitting down next to Hermann on the display couch. “An Ektorp. What do you think?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, adjusting his posture, leaning back. He can tell the cushions are cheap, not made to last for more than a few years. Newt watches expectantly. “Well, it isn’t the worst seating I’ve ever had…”

“But I bet it’ll suck in six months and your hip will hurt like hell every time you get up,” Newt says, sighing and leaning into Hermann’s side. “I don’t want that.”

“We need to be frugal, Newt,” Hermann replies, pecking him on the forehead. Thankfully, the IKEA is fairly deserted, which means no worries about any public displays of affection being seen by prying eyes. “Living outside of the Shatterdome is expensive. We agreed that privacy and a place to call our own was more important than the convenience of PPDC’s cheap rent.”

“Frugal doesn’t mean putting you in pain, Herm. We can get a good couch, cut some other corners from our budget. I don’t actually need a monthly import of ice cream from Vermont.”

“I never actually believed you were serious about that particular demand.”

Newt smiles, batting his eyelashes at Hermann. “You need to get acquainted with my friends Ben and Jerry. Perhaps a foursome is in order.”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “Aren’t they both deceased?”

“Pshh. You say necrophilia, I say poh-tah-to.”

“Lovely. The point remains that, for now, we need quite a few things for our apartment, and this is the only place that fits into our budget.”

“Fine, we’ll get everything else from here. I’m sure the bedframes can stand up to at least a year of what I plan on doing to you on them.”

Hermann colors red, unable to hide his smile. “You are impossible.”

“Maybe.” Newt winks and leans up to steal a quick kiss. “But I’m not letting you be all noble and self-sacrificing about your comfort just to save us a couple hundred bucks.” He stands up. “Come on. I want to show you the Malm so we can stress test it.”

Hermann pushes himself up, already finding the ache in his hip has increased from merely sitting on the couch.

“Alright,” Hermann says. “You win this particular argument. But if you believe you’re getting me on a bed with you in a public venue, you’re a madder scientist than people assume.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” Newt says, interlacing their fingers.


	7. Tale #7: Drift Compatible (Rating: T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from twixremix on tumblr: "newt and hermann hypothetically but secretly semi-seriously talking about piloting a jaeger together after finding out they're drift compatible and what their weapon would be (a cane with punk-rock spikes, duh). they end up sketching their whole design on hermann's blackboard !!" Original prompt [here](http://nighthawkms.tumblr.com/post/173407655835/mini-newmann-scenario-newt-and-hermann)

Newton has his chalk.

Newton never, ever,  _EVER_  touches his chalk. He knows better. Hermann reserves his chalk like it’s a precious reserve of musgravite, never sure of when another requisition will be delivered to him. He’s gotten perilously close to running out several times, no one else in the Shatterdome uses it, and most of his previous laboratory compatriots found his obsession with calculating conundrums with calcium carbonate to be, well, respiratorally irritating.

Once or twice in the beginning, Newton had hidden a box out of malice after one of their resplendent, Shatterdome-shattering arguments, only to find that Hermann will tear Newton’s side of the lab to pieces trying to find it, and well, Newton is chaotic, but the type of chaotic tempered by an internal set of loosely defined boundaries that do not agree with Hermann’s upending of his space. So, as Hermann will venture into Newton’s chaos for no other reason, Newton stopped leveraging the chalk.

And yet now, less than 24 hours after they drifted with one another, touched the messy, barely comprehensible inner workings of each other’s minds, the man is standing in front of one of Hermann’s blackboards, dressed in a ratty black long-sleeved shirt and plaid pajama pants, scribbling something on the bottom right corner of the board. Newton is blocking Hermann’s view, but around Newton’s silhouette he sees faded chalk marks, brushed streaks of white pushed upwards and outwards.

“It is three forty-five in the bloody morning, Newton. What are you possibly doing?”

Newton twitches and freezes when he hears Hermann’s voice. Slowly, he turns his head around; Hermann catches sight of the congested, broken blood vessels still ringing a halo around Newton’s cornea, and the sallowing bags beneath his eyeballs.

“I could ask you the same question,” Newton says.

His eyelids droop, weighted down with exhaustion, posture slouched. Hermann catches sight of the white stain of chalk on the side of his sleeve that travels up onto the side of his palm, a solid piece grasped betwixt his fingers

“You keep normal hours,” Newton continues. “I never do.”

“Yes, well, I couldn’t sleep.” Hermann leans to the right, then scowls. “You erased my equations?”

Newton waves a dismissive hand at him, and if Hermann was closer, he might swat it out of annoyance at his co-worker’s seeming lack of care. One thing they’ve never done is purposefully attempt to sabotage each other’s work.  _Is this the hivemind?_ Hermann thinks. The thought occurs to him as a cold wave, starting in his mind and trickling into the center of his stomach, a nauseating pool. Perhaps Newt would not try to disrupt his work, but what else now lurks in the neural networking of the other man?

“You didn’t need them anymore.” Newton turns around, still blocking view of the board behind him. “Not those ones, anyway. Part of your predictive models that we disproved with the drift. I copied them to paper if you’re that desperate to look at how I totally owned you.” He grins and motions to an unfamiliar bit of paper lying atop Hermann’s station. “See? Stop catastrophizing that I’ve been corrupted by the hivemind. I can feel it from over here.”

“You cannot.” Hermann steps to the station, snatching the paper and looking it over. Despite the messy scrawl of handwriting, even messier than usual, Newton has copied the equations correctly. Hermann sighs in relief, lies the paper back down, and moves closer to Newton. “I refuse to believe a drift bond is anything more than an echoing imprint. Telekenesis is impossible.”

“Fine, we’ve got plenty of time in the future to argue over the obvious hypothesis that the hivemind rewrote our neural capacities to allow projection of mental data, like we’re human wi-fi routers.”

“Physically improbable. Why did you erase my board?”

“I, uh, I couldn’t find a pencil.” Newton lifts his arms, shrugging in a helpless manner that Hermann has always found annoyingly endearing. “Only pens, and I hate trying to sketch with permanent ink. I saw your board and somehow was not immediately repelled by the thought of chalk lung.”

“And what, pray tell, was so important to jot down at nearly four am that it required erasing my work?”

“My masterpiece, Herms. Look!”

He steps aside, revealing finally what he’s been drawing. It’s a Jaeger, or at least, something similar, the design quite improbable. The chest is wide, but the waist is curved in an exaggeratedly feminine set of hips, with equally thin and long legs and arms, elbows and backs of knees sprouting sharp blades. The head is bulbed on top, curved inwards towards the bottom, when it becomes a long, thin, rectangular chin, and also sports some sort of horn jutting out of its head.

Hermann squints at the drawing. “And what is this supposed to be for?” The structure would never remain upright with these proportions, too top heavy, and how could it stand up to the strain of colliding with a monster the size of a tanker ship?

Newton motions excitedly. “It’s our Jaeger!”

“…Our?”

“Yeah. You and me. Like, y’know, if, hypothetically, we were ever gonna pilot one.”

“Ah.” Hermann grips his cane a bit tight, glancing down at his hands, and below that, the hip that even now tingles with a faint ache. He knows Newton isn’t trying to be hurtful, really, but hypothesizing about Hermann in control of one of those magnificent machines… it’s just another reminder of the failure of his youth, his rejection from the Jaeger Academy. What the physical limitations of his body are, in comparison to the limitless potential of his mind.

“So I was thinking,” Newton says, waving a hand in front of Hermann’s face, so that Hermann looks back up at him. “Jaeger pilots need to be in sync in body and mind. Obviously, we disagree on half the things we talk about in any given hour, but I’d like to think it’s a compatible give and take, an ‘opposites attract’ thing we’ve got going on.” He waggles his eyebrows, as if to imply, to suggest-

_Careful Hermann_ , he thinks to himself. I _t’s never what you think._

“Go on,” Hermann entreats. Newt has piqued his curiosity.

“So our mental tango is  _simpatico_ , but we’ve got some issues in the body area. Nobody ever bothers to modify these things to accommodate disabilities, since you’re supposed to be like, the peak of human physical perfection to even get close to one, but this is our fantasy Jaeger, so fuck it.”

He steps a little farther to the side, and there’s a smaller drawing. It’s a hastily drawn human figure, and around its waist is strapped some sort of metal contraption, its right hip sheathed in interconnected metal panels. The hip rig has metal rods jutting out downwards that attach to increasingly smaller metal bands around the humanoid’s inner thigh, down to right above its kneecap. Below the kneecap, the bands connect to a boot made up of interlocking metal panels.

“I’m assuming that is supposed to be some sort of contraption to support my hip,” Hermann says.

Newton nods. “Yeah. I was watching old movies ‘cause, y’know, boredom now that we’ve saved the world and the most important thing in our lives has ceased to become an issue, and of course, what’s a Newton Geiszler Saturday night without a few good Marvel movies? And Tony built this leg thing for Rhodey after Civil War, and he still got to be War Machine, because duh, your disability does not define all the awesome things you’re capable of, and why are you smiling at me like that?”

Hermann lets out a soft chuckle. “This is a pointless thought experiment, and yet you took the time to design a contraption that would rationalize how I could ever hope to pilot a Jaeger with you. You astound me, at times.”

Newton smiles, a carbon copy of that infectious look of joy he’d had when Hermann had said he would drift with him. “Yeah dude, who else am I gonna pilot one of these babies with? Like… nope, I literally cannot think of anybody else who could put up with me long enough. And, I mean, you’ve already been inside me- intellectually speaking, heh. And we already know we’re drift compatible. So… yeah.” Newton rubs his bloodshot eye, winces, cursing, as he’d obviously forgotten that was the sleeve covered in chalk dust. He rubs it again with his clean hand, then pushes his sleeves up, tattoos glowing yellow in the lamplight. “That’s our Jaeger.”

“Perhaps that’s your conception of it,” Hermann replies, stepping up next to Newton and holding a hand out. “Chalk.”

Newton hands him the piece, raising an eyebrow as Hermann puts chalk to board and begins drawing. He widens the waist to balance the structure, and fiddles with the construction of the feet, increasing the surface area where they touch the ground. The only other additions are to the hands. He erases both and redraws each in an amateur attempt at a fist. To the right fist, he adds a familiar gripping rod, and a long pole jutting perpendicular from the center of the grip. There are sharp pointed spikes added to the sides of the pole that look similar to Gypsy Danger’s chain sword in their damage output.

Newton nudges Hermann’s shoulder with his own shoulder, which, considering the height difference, is more like upper-arm-to-shoulder contact, but it’s a warm, friendly connection nonetheless.He’s smiling, close and comfortable in Hermann’s personal space, more comfortable than they’ve ever been in the past. Hermann just attributes these things to the drift bond now, whether or not it’s true.

“Is that a cane?” Newton asks, all teeth, smile lines creasing next to his eyes.”So our plan of attack is to whap the kaiju’s kneecaps every time they irritate us? At least make the end of it pointy too, like one of those old timey cane swords.” He reaches, prying the chalk from Hermann’s grip, warm fingertips ghosting against the back of Hermann’s hand. Hermann feels a bit of a shiver, though the room is warm, so terribly warm.

“For your information,” Hermann says as Newton brushes away the end of the cane, “I was planning on drawing an electric guitar in the other fist. You might incapacitate the kaiju with the soundwave it would produce, and then aim for its more vulnerable parts while it is paralyzed.”

“Way too complicated.” Newton sniffs, rubs the healing cut on his cheek, leaving chalk residue across his face. He doesn’t seem to realize, still looking at the board, fixing the bottom of the cane. “It’s like you’ve learned nothing in all the years we’ve worked here.”

“I take grievous offense to that.” Hermann does not, in fact, take grievous offense. But their back and forth is familiar. Newton in his personal space, in his head… it’s new, and terrifying. Exciting, but destabilizing all his preconceptions about their relationship.

Hermann reaches out despite his own common sense and brushes some of the chalk dust off Newton’s cheek. Newton freezes, eyes flicking up to meet Hermann’s, and then his other hand snaps out to grab Hermann’s wrist.

“What are you doing?” Newton asks.

Hermann finds he doesn’t have much of an answer, so he says nothing, merely observes.

“That was pretty affectionate, for someone who’s often claimed to hate my guts,” Newton continues.

The air has stilled, stale with chalk dust, but horribly silent, no scratching of calcium carbonate against enamel. Newton doesn’t let go of his wrist, watching him. Hermann gets the sinking feeling that a topic has been broached that can’t be bottled back up, like he’s been doing, if he’s honest, for years now.

“The drift changed things,” Hermann replies, quietly, hesitantly.

“Not that many things, Herm.”

“No. But perhaps enough to… allow acknowledgement. Of things previously left unsaid.”

Newton- no, Newt, that feels right now… Newt closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are true and well  _hooded,_  and he’s shifted his head down just a bit so that he’s literally looking up at Hermann  _through his eyelashes,_  like he’s the heroine of a tacky romance novel, and still, despite the presupposed tackiness of it all, Hermann finds he is holding his breath.

“I’ve got another thought experiment,” Newt says, and then he leans his head every so slightly to the side and brushes his lips against Hermann’s wrist. Hermann swallows,  _hard_. “What else do you think we can acknowledge? Hypothetically, if you’d like.”

_Fuck the hypotheticals_ , Hermann thinks. He tugs his hand free of Newt’s grip, then uses it to cup Newt’s chin, tipping his head up. Newt smiles, and Hermann leans down to meet Newt where he’s at.


	8. Misson Rimpossible (Rating: E)

It was an off-handed phrase thrown out in the middle of a heated argument.

"Eat my whole ass, Hermann!" Newt had yelled, furious at Hermann for tearing apart his latest theoretical model of Kaiju endocrinal systems in front of the Marshall. As if Hermann was the one with a degree in xenobiology and thousands of man hours digging into the remains of squelchy Kaiju viscera. Even if the guy had a few good points about some of the shoddier theories of hormone regulation that Newt threw out, still. He could've said that shit before Pentecost asked to see his weekly write up.

It was a childish, mindless sort of insult, and a normal person would've replied with something like, "I'm quite full, thank you" or "stop being so childish, Newton" or even "that is anatomically improbable and disgusting."

Instead, what comes out of Hermann's mouth is: "Is that a proposition?"

Newt knows that it's a dismissal masked as a challenge, but god damn it, Hermann isn't taking him seriously, so Newt is going to _make_ him.

"Sure," Newt says, folding his arms, glaring across the lab line. "We'll call it your apology for fucking  _humiliating_  me."

If Hermann wants to play a little gay chicken, then he's going to get more than he bargained for.

Hermann squints, sliding his glasses off his nose and lifting the chain they hang from over his head, setting them on the desk.

"Your 'humiliation' was a byproduct of presenting a clearly incompetent model and expecting my not to say anything. I will not stand by and allow you to perform shoddy work. Clearly you've been distracted, unfocused as of late. Now, I'll ask it again." And to Newt's utter shock, Hermann steps over their dividing line, stepping up close, hands folded and resting on the cane in front of him. "Are you propositioning me, or are you tossing about ill-construed insults like the juvenile delinquent you so clearly aim to be?"

 _Fuck this guy_ , Newt thinks, a little surprised but not about to give in.

"You need me to say it again, grandpa? Your hearing not what it used to be?" He smirks when Hermann flares his nostrils. "Well, here you go. Eat. My. _Whole._  Ass."

This might explain how he ends up on his stomach on the bed in Hermann's bunk, jeans and boxers yanked down to his knees, biting on a pillow and clawing at the sheets as Hermann licks into him.

Okay, so, Hermann really, _really_  doesn't like to lose at gay chicken. Newt had this revelation about thirty seconds ago, when the other man was shoving him onto the bed, snapping for Newt to drop his drawers and present himself if he wanted Hermann's 'apology' so badly. Right up until Newt felt a wet, warm thing wriggling against his entrance, he'd thought, surely, Hermann will back down, he'll concede to Newt's challenge before his tongue ends up _inside of Newt's ass_.

But apparently, Hermann Gottlieb is full of surprises, including an unerring motivation to never letting Newt win an argument.

If Newt yelps at the first stroke of the tongue, well, it's because he's not fucking expecting it! Did he expect, when he woke up this morning, that he'd end the day with his lab partner cum bitter rival's teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin between his thighs? Did he prepare, mentally, for the idea of being laid out in such a vulnerable position - ass in the air, bowed forwards, unable to see what's going on behind him - by the man whose extreme OCD tendencies about hygiene made this activity as improbable for him to perform as it would to see him skydive? Fuck no! He doesn't think that they talk about this scenario in the PPDC training manual. 'Chapter 42: So You're Being Eaten Out by Your Lab Partner.'

And the problem is... Hermann is good. Like, really fucking good at this. He's got a firm grip around Newt's thighs, keeping his legs spread wide apart. He's taking his time, quick strokes against the bud of Newt's hole before moving away to plant kisses across his backside, sink his teeth into it, nipping gently, and then suddenly, he's prodding his tongue into Newt, completely unfairly, no warning given. So, if Newt's voice is strained, practically squeaking when Hermann thrusts his tongue a little deeper, if his completely neglected cock is ramrod hard and leaking onto the sheets (and if Hermann is going to bitch about that later, it's his own damn fault), then is it any wonder?

Hermann Gottlieb has absolutely eaten ass before. Newt will stake every goddamn PhD he has on this theory.

" _Fuck!_ " Newt yells when Hermann thrusts his tongue deeper, the deepest prod yet, before drawing it back and circling it around the puckered hole. It feels so good, fuck, why does it feel so good?

"Is this what you wanted, Newton?" Hermann queries, one hand skimming down Newt's right cheek. "Is this what usually happens when you've challenged past lab partners?"

"Of fucking course not- sh-shit!" Newt whines and rolls his hips against the bed as Hermann draws a long stroke of his tongue down, just barely swiping against his sack. "God, where the fuck did you learn to do this, dude?"

"That is for me to know," Hermann replies, "and you to agonize over never finding out."

Newt practically rips holes into Hermann's sheets as he digs his fingers into the mattress. His body is so tense, so tightly coiled, and the lack of stimulus on his cock so painful. Hermann keeps up his torturous pace, lighting up every sensitive patch of Newt's body, both inside and out, until he can't take it anymore, he's mad with lust and the need to move past this goddamn edging Hermann is doing with his tongue alone.

"Oh... f-fuck me," Newt moans, thrusting against the sheets.

"Is that another proposition?" Hermann asks, as if he's not already rifling through his nightstand for a bottle of lubricant and slicking up two fingers.

"Yes, _yes_!" Newt shouts as Hermann pushes one finger into him. "Please, Herms, I need it, fuck!"

"Well then," Hermann says, chuckling at the whimper Newt lets out when Hermann's second finger penetrates him. "I suppose we can count this as another apology, yes? To show you how _contrite_  I am."

Okay. So, Newt lost this round of gay chicken. But he's not angry about the outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left this purposefully ambiguous as to whether or not they're in a relationship. Whatever side of that question you fall on is how ridiculous you'll find this ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
